


Achingly, Ardently

by cobblepologist



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Angst, Best Friends, Bittersweet Ending, Canon Compliant, Confusion, Enemies to Lovers, Friends to Enemies, Jealousy, M/M, Mutual Pining, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-23
Updated: 2018-12-23
Packaged: 2019-09-25 17:48:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17125949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cobblepologist/pseuds/cobblepologist
Summary: He doesn't think Jeremiah is beyond saving, beyond redemption or rehabilitation, but he knows he'd never do it willingly. And maybe a piece of him is still bitter, about Selina, about Gotham, about this diseased version of his closest friend that Jerome left him with. He doesn't know who to blame, in the end.Bruce visits Jeremiah.





	Achingly, Ardently

Bruce knows what love is.

It's a lamp on in the early hours of the morning. First kisses, family portraits. It's a night at the opera. Girls who like antiques. Yes, Bruce knows what love is, even as his hands shake and he tries harder to remember what his father looked like. Love is the weight of a stone in his hands and in his heart.

It is not feigned glances at blueprints, redirecting his eyes from someone else's. Not red hair and freckles, the kind of shyness that takes up all of your attention.

He tells himself this in search of the little bit of comfort it provides him. Even know, as he walks down the savaged streets of Gotham, towards that lack of love. He doesn't even have to look where he's going. The way there is etched into his body's memory, like a corruption of autopilot. The process is automated, lines of code written into his genes.

There's no one stopping him from getting in. Instead of making himself known, he watches for a moment, inspects the curve of Jeremiah's shoulders, his back. A man stands next to him, and Bruce feels sick at the sight of him. (Because of what Jeremiah is using him for, of course. The whole thing is sick. It is nothing more) Jeremiah himself is leaned over the drafting table fully, eyes trained on the data that makes Bruce work, function, survive. Pouring over it over and over in hopes of solving him. There is a pen in Jeremiah's hand, and Bruce peers over his shoulder, sees where he'd been furiously scribbling notes, lines of pristine and neat text. He smiles wider, sighs, "Bruce," when he sees him.

He straightens himself up, and in one fluid motion, jabs his pen into his aide's eye. Bruce has no time to react, to say "no, don't," or any variation thereof. The man is dead on the floor with no ceremony to it.

If he misses one thing about Jerome, it's that. Jeremiah does not drag things out. (Maybe he used to, when he was less decisive. Maybe Jerome only gave him the ability to choose.) Somewhere between tension and attention.

No hesitation.

Bruce stills himself. "Why?" As if he doesn't know, knows even now as he watches the blood gather beneath the man's head like flowers.

"I wanted us to be alone," Jeremiah smiles. He hasn't stopped smiling.

A long time ago, Bruce would say, "come with me, you need help, we can get someone to help you," but not now. He doesn't think Jeremiah is beyond saving, beyond redemption or rehabilitation, but he knows he'd never do it willingly. And maybe a piece of him is still bitter, about Selina, about Gotham, about this diseased version of his closest friend that Jerome left him with. He doesn't know who to blame, in the end.

Honeyed lips mask the venom dripping from his teeth. There is something different about him now, more sultry than the Jeremiah he knew, hidden deep beneath the earth, behind layers and labyrinths. When they buried his brother, they dug him up. Now, he is more guarded, and more open. Everything in his presentation seeks to entice, begs Bruce to come closer. Bruce is strong-willed in all aspects, aside from this.

He thinks of that Jeremiah, always in beige, like he wanted to blend in as much as possible. How he'd shrink against the wall, his quiet voice and his stutters, late at night, when only Bruce could hear that vulnerability. But that is not the man in front of him. The artist smeared himself with his own paint, and that's it, red to black, rosy cheeks to white, green to iceblue. The painted lips, the perfect way his lipstick wraps around his words.

"You need to stop this. You're crazy." He's said the same thing a thousand times. The record skips and breaks but never falters. "You're hurting so many people."

Jeremiah tilts his head. "What's so crazy about friendship? You gave me everything, Bruce. I simply want to return the favor." If he was anyone else, he'd be so much angrier about being called crazy. But he is Bruce, _his_  Bruce.

"I have everything," Bruce says, but the insincerity chokes him. Not anymore, he thinks when he looks at Jeremiah, when he looks at the rubble of his house.

Jeremiah tilts his head the other way, like a metronome. He does not reply, but there's a question between the two of them. _Do you? Do you really?_

"Jeremiah-"

"You really are my best friend, Bruce." Friendship is not the word either of them mean. He closes rhe gap between the two of them, eyes staring him down.

That sickening clarity dawns on him again, diamondclear. No. He has no other reason for being here. Reformation is merelt a pretense. He swallows, the stone in his throat refusing to sink. Jeremiah holds his face in his hands, tilts his chin up softly. Bruce makes the mistake of hesitating. That's it for him, and Jeremiah presses his lips messily against his, an open-mouthed mimic of a real kiss.

It's nothing like the _old_  Jeremiah, all soft cow eyes and whimpers. Begging for the barest of touches, as if he were so fragile that prodding him too hard could break him. And prodded he was, deep in the folds of that brain of his, bloodied fingers digging deeper into the wrinkles and pulling out the nasty thoughts he kept behind.

"I love you," Jeremiah sighs against his lips, and Bruce almost sobs, almost hicks out _no you don't_ , but Bruce is an honest man. It was wrong, sick, the way Jeremiah loved him, wanted to eat him alive with every breath, devour every piece of him until they were one in the same, clumps of his hair stuck in between those pearly teeth of his. Paint his lips with his blood, maybe. Just like his brother.

Maybe he should back away, but it isn't the proper step in the dance. He grabs at him with an equal amount of fury, fingers leaving dark purple marks into the whiteness of his skin. Jeremiah exhales longingly, patient. Bruce blinks away the water from his eyes, and sinks deeper. "I love you, too.'

Yes, Bruce knows what love is.


End file.
